


The Day After

by CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins



Series: It's Never Just One Night [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Drunk Sex, Embarrassed Steve, M/M, off screen sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-04
Updated: 2015-05-04
Packaged: 2018-03-28 22:38:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3872347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins/pseuds/CleverLines_Unread_CleverNapkins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a night he can't completely remember, Steve has to face the Mystery Man he went home with. Twice. </p>
<p>What he mistakes for awkwardness and embarrassment - swapped clothes, lost phones, and meddling friends - may just turn out to be the beginnings of something great.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day After

The bed dipped down under Steve, waking him up from the deepest sleep he's had in a while. Blearily, he opened his eyes only to close them again as the morning sunlight violated his vision and caused a massive explosion in his head that continued to pound even with his eyes closed and the blanket pulled up and over his head.

_God, he was never drinking again._

Just as Steve was resolving to stay in bed for the rest of the day, he noticed something strange: In his apartment in Brooklyn, his bed doesn't face the window. When he had originally moved in a little over a year ago, he had made sure that his bed was tucked neatly into the corner, with the window across the room on the same wall where the head of his bed was so that the sun wouldn't hit him in the eyes and wake him up. Which it had this morning. 

The blanket was immediately and violently thrown off, Steve sitting up and studiously ignoring the almost blinding pain in his skull as he looked around. 

There was a low dresser in the corner next to a full length mirror that showed Steve sitting in a rather large bed he never remembered purchasing, covered in sheets that he would never own. This was not his room. Which means that he was not in his apartment in Brooklyn. 

Steve got out of bed, spinning around, looking.... because if he wasn't in his apartment, that means that he went home with that guy from the club, and it wasn't just a dream. 

Fuck, he was never drinking again _and_ he was going to kill Natasha!

When Steve stood he noticed he was still wearing his boxer briefs from the night before, but it told him little about last night, as his shirt was on the ground by the door, and the rest of his clothes not even in the room. 

Steve took a cautious step out of the bedroom as he pulled on his shirt; he was on high alert for any signs of the man he went home with, but he wasn't anywhere to be seen. The rest of the apartment was nice, spacious, and very noticeably professionally decorated, with very few personal touches. The bedroom was off of a hallway that led into the living room, kitchen, and a small foyer where the front door - and Steve's final destination - stood. The blonde started down the hall, on watch for any of the rest of his clothes, when he heard the tell-tale sound of water running behind another door. The bathroom. The bathroom that was currently being used. 

Just the thought of the guy from the club actually being here sent Steve's pulse flying. He remembered bits and pieces from the night before, just enough to know that he did not want to see him this morning, if only out of pure embarrassment. Steve knew he had drank way too much the night before, downing shot after shot after shot between dances before throwing himself into the lap of the pretty guy at the bar that Natasha had _sworn_ was giving him eyes. 

Steve knew he couldn't hold his tongue or his libido where alcohol was concerned, but last night was special. Sam was officially on leave after eleven months abroad, so _of course_ they had to celebrate. 

But even if Steve had his reasons for getting that drunk, and even if - hell, maybe _because_ \- he didn't remember, he knew he had embarrassed himself beyond belief. 

Hearing the water running kicked Steve Rogers into overdrive, as he all but ran through the house, finding his shoes and socks in the kitchen, his pants in the living room. He didn't bother with the socks, or tying the laces, for that matter, just slipping them on, because trying to pull on the incredibly tight skinny jeans took much too long for his taste. Seriously, why had he thought wearing them was a good idea? 

Folding the pair of socks into his back pocket, Steve noticed that his phone, which was almost always in that same pocket, was no where to be found. He rushed further back into the apartment, hoping that in his drunken haze, he had just misplaced it. He had checked each room where he had found pieces of his clothes, but there was no trace of the phone.

It was only when he was stooping to check under the dresser in the bedroom that he noticed the balcony outside the french doors. Steve walked over, making sure to open the doors as silently as possible, walking out into the sounds and smells of the city. 

There was a heavy breeze that ruffled his hair and causing goosebumps to pop up on his exposed skin. Below him was a typical New York City street, complete with honking car horns and the unintelligible chatter of the locals filtering up. He had to squint from the high story, but he was able to make out the street signs below. 

He took a deep breath; he may not know how he had gotten here last night, but he knew how to get home from here. 

He was steps away from the door, really, _steps away_ when Steve had a crisis of conscience. This stranger took him back to his apartment, and even if Steve couldn't much remember the night, the stranger had let him stay, had shared the bed throughout the night, and was nice enough to not wake him up early or kick him out. And now he was just going to leave?

Well of course he was going to leave, but to leave without any closure? That wasn't like Steve. 

Quickly, Steve scampered back into the kitchen to spoon a few scoops of coffee grinds into the machine; He had seen the machine earlier when he was looking for his pants, the barrel of grinds conveniently next to it, a spoon inside. The blonde pressed the button and the machine started whirring, which made it harder to hear if the club guy was out of the bathroom yet and made Steve anxious. He quickly wrote out a note on the bottom of a shopping list before stealing out the door. 

_Sorry I had to leave, I didn't want to bother you. Thanks for last night and I hope the coffee's good. - Steve_

XxX

"Natasha!" Steve yelled as he swung the door open to his apartment. He knew she'd still be there; Steve's house was closer to the clubs than Clint's or Natasha's, and Sam stays with him when he's on leave, so they all crash at his place on nights like this. 

When Steve makes it inside, he finds Natasha in the kitchen nursing a steaming hot cup of tea. She's wearing a pair of Clint's sweatpants and a tank-top, her hair is a mess, her makeup slightly smudged from the night before, but somehow she still looks beautiful. 

"Well there's my little Captain America!" she said, perking up immediately at the counter. "So tell me, how are the men of our country? Firm? Capable?" 

"Wish I could tell you," Steve muttered, rolling his eyes. 

The redhead just laughed, "Don't tell me there's still the Don't Ask, Don't Tell Policy!" 

There was a thump from deeper inside the apartment. The two stopped talking as Clint shuffled in. 

"Yo, do you two have any idea how early it is?" He complained. 

Natasha rolled her eyes, "It's past noon, Clint." 

That piece of news surprised both men, Clint rolling with it more easily, "Yeah, well when you drink as much as I did last night, noon is like six a.m." 

"Please, Barton, we went shot for shot last night." 

Clint's eyes opened wide, "Yeah," he deadpanned, "which is why I threw up in that garbage can on the way home." 

"We all can't hold our liquor like you, Nat," Steve said with a smile, accepting a mug of coffee from Clint. 

The red head smiled, "It's a gift." She paused a moment until, "What time did you wake up this morning, actually? I tried calling you like ten times - it was your turn to get bagels."

"It's _always_ my turn to get bagels," he said fondly.

She shrugged, "It's your house." 

Clint was now sitting cross-legged on the counter. "I'll forgive the poor breakfast choices, Cap, _if_ the reason was that you were too busy with that guy this morning to answer your phone."

Steve ran a hand through his hair, "No, uh, I think I left my phone somewhere at the club, actually."

"Is that the same place you lost your pants, or were they two separate incidents?" Clint chuckled, Natasha joining in.

"Yeah, seriously, Cap, those pants are painted on. It's a good look, don't get me wrong, but not your usual."

"Wha - " Steve looked down at himself. His jeans were dark, near black, and, as already established earlier, extremely tight. Natasha had taken him out a few nights before to buy some new clothes for Sam's welcoming, including a few more form-fitting pieces of clothing that he wouldn't have bought on his own. Those jeans had been closer to the skin than what he was used to, but never hurt or were particularly uncomfortable. The ones he was currently wearing, however, felt like they were a few sizes too small, the waist digging into his hip bones, the bottom of each leg just barely grazing the top of his shoes. He took a deep breath. "These are not my pants." 

XxX

Steve stood in outside a brick apartment building a little while later, trying hard not to run his hands through his carefully combed hair. It had taken him longer than he'd like to admit to be standing outside Mystery Guy's apartment, and if he didn't feel so damn guilty about keeping the pants, he wouldn't have come back at all. 

Steve had come out of the shower after making a hasty retreat from the kitchen, Nat and Clint's laughter following him until there were two thick wooden doors between them, with the full intent to give the pants over to the lost and found at the club and never think of last night again. But, as he stood in front of his closet, he could feel the weight of the Mystery Pants behind him; he had practically stole them from some poor guy. And it wasn't like Steve to sneak out in the morning, or even to _have_ a one night stand. Call him old fashioned, but Steve always thought that sex should have emotion behind it, that one should care deeply for the other before they take that step. 

But, of course, tequila makes Steve do crazy things. 

And now it was time to face it, meaning Steve had to give the pants over face-to-face, find his phone, and get his real pants back. He had stood in front of his closet for fifteen minutes, trying to find just the right outfit before he laughed at himself; this wasn't a date, it didn't matter what he wore to do a quick exchange of personal items. Hell, they probably wouldn't even exchange more than a few words, and then they would each go their separate ways, case closed. 

With that line of thought, Steve threw on a simple white t-shirt and jeans before draping the other jeans over his arm and leaving his room. Nat and Clint were still in the kitchen waiting for him to walk back through. True to form they whistled at him, throwing out lines about "booty-calls" and making kissing sounds until the apartment door slammed shut between them.

Which led Steve to standing outside Mystery Guy's building, trying to figure out just what to say. What do people do in this kind of situation? Ring the bell and say, "Hi, I don't know who you are but I spent the night here and accidentally stole your pants trying to sneak out - can I come up?"

For some reason, he didn't think that would go over smoothly. 

He didn't have as much time to think about it as he would have hoped, however, because as Steve paced up and down just outside the door, he got the wind knocked out of him: an old man had exited the building, swinging the heavy door right into Steve's side as he did so.

"Sorry about that, son," the man said, looking as unapologetic as possible.

Trying to catch his breath, Steve just waved, nodding his head in acceptance. The two stood there a moment, the man with one hand still holding the door open, Steve curled over on himself, concentrating on breathing deeply without choking. It was times like these when Steve's childhood asthma reared its ugly head and made Steve as weak in the knees - _and lungs_ \- as it had all those years ago. 

"In or out?" came a sharp bark, jolting Steve to stand at his full height.

"Sorry?" he said, his voice coming out just slightly scratched, his chest still working hard to recover. 

The old man scowled, "In or out?" When Steve still didn't understand, he continued, "Coming or going? Inside or outside? This door isn't going to stay forever and I'm not getting any younger here." 

Finally, Steve understood, "Oh! In, sir, sorry!" Scooping back up the pants, he darted inside the building. As he walked towards the elevator, Steve was almost happy that the man had hit him - now he didn't have to have the more awkward "can I come up" conversation on the street. If worse came to worst and Mystery Guy refuses to open the door or isn't home, Steve can leave the pants outside with a note and he could walk away conscious cleared. 

But as Steve got closer and closer to the apartment in question the more he realized how not possible that scenario was going to be: even from down the hall where the elevator bay was, he could hear the faint bumping of music over a stereo. It could have been nothing more than a kid in his room in some other part of the hall, but in his gut, Steve knew it would be Mystery Guy. Because that's just how his luck went. 

The knock sounded three sharp times, though Steve was doubtful anyone but him could hear it over the music. He waited a minute before shaking his head, pounding on the door with the side of his fist; he resolved himself to wait another minute before he left the jeans by the door and walking out. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it - there was only a beat between Steve's second knock and an almost deafening silence. The blaring music had been turned off, or down, and not even a second later the apartment door swung open. 

And revealed possibly the most gorgeous man Steve had ever seen. 

He was struck silent for a moment, his mind filled with the sight of a muscled and defined chest, shaggy hair he seriously had to stop himself from touching, and legs that went on for days. Mystery Guy was patient, just standing, arms crossed over his chest, smirk on his lips as he waited for Steve to focus again. 

"Uh, hi," Steve said oh so eloquently. He could feel a blush creep up on him. 

Mystery Guy's smile was easy, "Hey, didn't expect to see you so soon." 

"Yeah, well," he ran a hand through his short hair, "I may have left my phone here this morning." 

Mystery Guy laughed, a whole hearted sound, "Yeah, yeah I got your phone. Funny little thing actually - " a shrill _beeep!_ came from inside the apartment just then. Mystery Guy's head swung around the other end of the door, hidden from Steve for a moment, before he muttered a swear. "Fuck, here, come in, Cap. These damn things better not burn again or I swear to God..." 

Mystery Guy walked away from the door, leaving it open for Steve, who balked a moment before tentatively following him deeper into the apartment. To say that Steve was confused would be a massive understatement: he was walking into the same apartment he had fled just hours before from a one-night stand to retrieve his pants. The one-night stand was much hotter than Steve could remember - which wasn't a lot, but still - and wasn't even the least put off that he left without a word. And, if that wasn't enough, somehow, this guy knew Steve's nickname. 

Steve walked into the kitchen to find Mystery Guy bent over to look in the oven, and damn if Steve didn't love that view. 

Mystery Guy - Steve really needed to find out his name - continued the conversation from the door while he was still turned away. "So as I was saying, you seem to be a pretty popular guy, Cap. That phone's been ringing non-stop for the past hour or so." he paused, pulling a tray out of the oven and placing it on the counter to cool. He turned to look at Steve with a smirk, "Did you happen to leave anything else here by any chance?"

If Steve didn't blush before, he sure as hell did now. "Depends. Did you happen to find anything else?" 

"Oh, I found it just fine. I'm just trying to figure out how you managed to leave here without pants on. Usually the neighbors frown on that sort of thing." 

He held up the pair of extremely tight jeans, "I didn't leave _totally_ pantless." Steve tossed them to Mystery Guy, who caught them easily in one hand. "By the way, you must have ridiculously small thighs to fit into pants that small." 

The other man just laughed as he walked out of the kitchen, presumably to go fetch Steve's missing items. "Takes one to know one," he called over his shoulder, "You were able to get them up!" Steve watched him go, and when Mystery Guy turned the corner, Steve jumped into action. He knew his window of opportunity was small and quickly closing, so he had to act fast. 

There was flour splattered on almost every surface of the kitchen, and Steve had to make a conscious effort to not touch anything. After a few frantic seconds of searching, he finally found what he was looking for; there was a small stack of unopened letters crammed next to the toaster oven. Steve glanced at the address typed on the front in the official font that banks and businesses use, noting the name and committing it to memory before moving back to the counter. 

Mystery Guy walked back in a second later, and Steve felt much more prepared. 

Steve took the pants and phone from Mystery Guy with a swift, "Thanks, James." _James,_ that was the name on the mail. James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, actually, if he wanted to get technical. The name didn't fully suit the man standing in front of him - he seemed rougher almost, probably because of his hair. The man in front of him appeared to be more carefree than most of the people Steve met on a day-to-day basis, especially those that could be called Sergeant. 

James took two steps before he burst into absolute laughter, "What did you just call me?" 

Well. That was not how Steve thought that would go. Maybe that letter was delivered to the wrong house, or he had a roommate or something. Man, he really should have checked all of the mail in the stack, not just the first envelope. 

"I, uh..." Steve stuttered. What could he possibly say to that? 

Mystery Guy's - James's - whatever his name was - laughter subsided until there was only a smile adorning his face. He ran a his left hand over his hair, letting it rest over his eyes a moment. It was then that Steve noticed that this man had a sort of cast on his arm; not a solid cast, but a soft one, a brace perhaps. Steve studied the thing to have something to focus on, rather than his own embarrassment. 

The brace had velcro straps securing it in place, the man's fingers slotting through one side, his thumb poking out of a hole on the side. Steve remembered the feeling of that velcro. The steady scraping of the harsh side against his pale skin, the goosebumps it created as it slid across his stomach, his legs, his neck. It was like Steve could feel it now, standing in the kitchen, the alienness of the fabric, its unforgivingness, and even this man's hesitancy to touch him at first. 

_I'd take it off if I could but...'" he had said._

_"No, s'fine, I don't mind," Steve knew his eyes were heavy, He had drunk way too much, but he was determined to be a little daring tonight. He took the man's hand with the brace, pulling it close and placing the palm on his chest. "Really, Bucky, just touch me."_

_And he did._

Steve's eyes opened wider. "Bucky?" he ventured. 

The man lowered his hand from covering his eyes to his mouth. His eyes looked skeptical, "So you do remember? No way that's a lucky guess."

"Hey, I wasn't _that_ drunk last night!" Bucky just stared at him. Steve relented, "Alright, I was drunk, but I can still remember names." 

"Whatever you say, Cap," he said lightly. He not-so-subtly checked the time on a clock on the wall. It was mid-afternoon, and it was then that Steve realized he had stayed longer than he had initially planned. This was a one-night stand, that's all. He didn't know this guy, and this guy didn't know him; Bucky probably had things to do and was hoping Steve would just leave already. 

He made to do just that, slipping off of the stool he had been on and gathering his pants. Bucky pushed off of the counter he was leaning on, but continued talking. 

"So did you have work of something today? he asked. 

The question took Steve off-guard for a moment, "No, I don't work Saturdays." 

Bucky nodded, "So then you _were_ just trying to sneak out this morning. There wasn't any specific place you had to get to." 

Steve paused. "This morning - "

Bucky kept walking, waving his hand, "It's fine. You wanted a one-off, and I respect that. Just saying, if you ever actually wanted to stay the morning, I wouldn't mind one bit, Cap."

By now the pair was at the door. Bucky was standing in almost the same position he was when Steve arrived, only facing inside rather than out: half of his body was behind the door, one forearm braced on the width of the door. Steve walked past the threshold, turning around just as Bucky was getting ready to close the door. 

"Hey, Bucky," he said. The other man stilled, looking up. "Why did I tell you that? I always hated that nickname."

"Oh, you didn't. You said you were Steve." He smirked. "Me and Nat had a great conversation this morning though - she told me." 

"Wait, wait, what?"

The door was closing slowly, "Check your phone there, Cap." The door to the apartment closed with a click while Steve stood there, his phone flipping idly in his hand. 

Steve walked down the stairs, skipping the elevator this time around. About halfway down the building, Steve stopped, sitting down on one of the steps. He had almost sat against the wall outside Bucky's home right after the door closed and looking through his phone, but decided that that was just a bit too soon. So walking three minutes down the stairwell was the longest he could hold out. 

So sue him, he was never that patient when there was information he needed. 

Unlocking his phone, he flipped open to his messages immediately. There were the usual contacts that he kept in touch with religiously: Sam, Clint, Natasha, Phil, Nick (even if that one was a bit grudgingly). They were all there, only a few messages were newer than he remembered. New as in this morning. 

As he clicked through the conversation, there was only one thing running through his mind. 

_I am going to_ kill _them when I get home_

XxX

**From Natasha**   
**_2:28 AM_ **   
_Stevie where aaaarrre you???_

**From Clint**   
**_2:36 AM_ **   
_Yo Cap call Nat_

**From Clint**   
**_2:41_ **   
_Seriously. Do it now. She's doing the weird perimeter sweep thing again._

**From Natasha**   
**_2:43 AM_ **   
_IF THESE ARE STEVES ABDUCTORS THEN KNOW THAT IF THERE IS NO CONTACT IN THREE MINUTES THEN I WILL KILL YOU_

**From Natasha**   
**_2:45 AM_ **   
_Ookay disregard that last message. Saw you and your boy toy getting cozy. Carry on._

**From Clint**   
**_3:12 AM_ **   
_Leaving in five. If you're not at the cab you're finding your own way home_

**To Clint**   
**_3:14 AM_ **   
_Got my way home. Don't wait up_

**From Clint**   
**_3:15 AM_ **   
_Atta boy!_

 

**From Natasha**   
**_12:16 PM_ **   
_Mystery club guy??_

**From Natasha**   
**_12:18 PM_ **   
_Steve's coming over right now, he left some clothes there_

**To Natasha**   
**_12:21 PM_ **   
_Yeah I guess this is the club guy. Bucky. Thanks for the heads-up_

**From Natasha**   
**_12:23 PM_ **   
_Anytime. He likes you, so you can't be so bad_

**To Natasha**   
**_12:26 PM_ **   
_Likes me, huh? Well that sure explains the disappearing act_

**From Natasha**   
**_12:28 PM_ **   
_Trust me. Cap doesn't do this often_

**To Natasha**   
**_12:29 PM_ **   
_Cap? And the disappearing or me?_

**From Natasha**   
**_12:31 PM_ **   
_He'll say his names Steve but it's really Cap. And I meant the whole one-off process but daaammnn I'll need details later ;)_

**To Natasha**   
**_12:37_ **   
_Hopefully he'll keep me around to give you them_

XxX

Steve stormed back into his apartment some time later, still livid. Natasha, Clint, and Sam were all in the living room, mid-popcorn fight. There was an upturned bowl on the table, the white little kernels dotting the floor around it; a movie was on the screen, some superhero film that was in a lull, winding down after the big battle. 

Clint's voice echoed through the apartment, "Steve's fair game!" 

All at once, Natasha and Sam paused and turned to look at Steve. Sam looked thoroughly concerned at Steve's reaction to the popcorn, not even trying to deflect the few kernels Natasha had tossed just before Clint's announcement.

Steve quickly took stock of the room, searching for Clint, seeing him only when Clint leaned into view. He was perched on the other side of the wall separating the kitchen from the living room, squatting precariously on a shelf he had cleared off. He winked at Steve before ducking back behind the wall. 

Even after all this time, Steve isn't used to Clint's crazy hearing powers; there was an explosion during his time in the service that destroyed his eardrums and left him deaf. He underwent an experimental surgery to repair it, but instead of simply giving back his hearing, it enhanced it to the point that he can pick up higher frequencies and hone in on specific sounds better and more efficiently than any other man alive. 

A handful of popcorn landed in Steve's face, courtesy of Natasha, who smirked smugly up at him. "So, Hotshot, how'd it go?"

"You've talked to him more than I have, Nat, you should already know," he said smartly. 

Sam finally shook off the wounded puppy face to look sideways at the Russian, "You know his one-night stand?"

Natasha opened her mouth, but Steve beat her to it, "She didn't last night. But when I left my cell there, Nat here thought it'd be a good idea to text him and figure out all the gory details before I even met the man."

"Low blow. We were talking about you, Steve," she defended, standing up.

"You had no right to. Tell me, how long did you wait after I left to dive on your phone?"

"Three point eight seconds," Clint supplied. Natasha glared at him. 

"And neither of you two men thought to stop her?"

"Man, I didn't even know about it," Sam said as he tried to put some of the popcorn back into the bowl. "I woke up and she was already on the phone, told me it was some Russian bullshit she had to take care of. I don't pry."

"Clint?" Steve asked. In reality, Clint is probably the only one out of the three of them who was capable of stopping Natasha from doing something without using force. 

"You saw me before you left; did I look like I was in any shape to be going head-to-head over texts?" he said, jumping down from his place with grace. "And hey, I tried. I told her there would be trouble as soon as she grabbed her phone."

"And then you puked," Natasha said. 

Clint nodded, "And then I puked."

"Guys, hold up," Sam was using his negotiator voice. "Nat, what exactly did you say?"

"It wasn't anything bad. I told him that Cap was coming by to pick up his stuff and that he might not be too smooth about it," she said simply. 

"As if it wasn't bad enough to go back over there to fetch pants, Bucky was totally laughing at the guy-who-needed-his-friend-to-flirt. It was over the line." 

"God, Cap! I was just telling the guy you were going over there!" She said, "It was him that decided to get all hurt 'cause you left without saying anything, alright?" Natasha turned on her heel and walked past Steve. On her way to the door she slipped into the heels she had worn last night and grabbed her clutch in a few swift movements before walking out. 

Steve leaned against the counter with a sigh as he heard the lock click closed. Sure, he was mad, but that didn't mean he wouldn't feel guilty about yelling at his friend. In her own way, Natasha was probably trying to help, however misguided he attempt was. 

By now, Sam had picked up most of the popcorn that had scattered near him, and as he walked to Steve, he laid the now mostly-filled bowl back on the table. 

"You okay, man?" he said. Sam was Steve's best friend, and he knew that he could tell Sam anything and everything and Sam wouldn't judge him for it. 

"Aside from the raging headache I can still feel and the incredible embarrassment in front of the guy whose pants I stole and yelling at my best friend, yeah, I'm great."

"Hey, thought I was your best friend," Sam joked, nudging Steve's shoulder. The two laughed softly. "So, what was he like?"

"Honestly?" Steve answered, feeling a smile forming. "He was pretty great. A regular knockout." 

"You gonna see him again?"

At that, the smile faded. Steve's shoulders slumped and he picked at the sleeve of his shirt. "He wouldn't really want to, would he now? After I could barely talk to him and Nat had to flirt for me." He sighed, "Plus, I don't even have his number." 

"You sure about that?" Sam asked as he began to walk out of the room.

"What do you mean?" 

"Just a hunch," he said, "but I'd double check your phone if I were you, just to make sure." 

Steve watched Sam leave the kitchen before pulling out his phone; the screen was still on the last message Bucky had sent Nat. _"Hopefully he'll keep me around"_. Those words echoed around in his head as he clicked on his contact list. 

Sure enough, as he scrolled through, the name "Bucky" stared back at him. He couldn't stop the smile from spreading across his face or the warmth chasing out the guilt in his chest. 

XxX


End file.
